


SYCO-FEMLOCK (2020)

by sokka1111



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, sherlockbbc
Genre: Coffeeshop AU, F/F, Femlock, Fluff, Genderbend, Johnlock - Freeform, Loose Canon, Multiple ships, diner au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:33:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25815100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sokka1111/pseuds/sokka1111
Summary: Jane Watson works the night shift at a 24 hour diner outside the train station, which happens to be the meditation spot of one obsessive-compulsive Silvya Holmes. Somewhere else, Molly Hooper is coming to terms with some things inside herself.LISTEN TO THE PLAYLIST!the playlist is to the fic as john is to sherlock, so b sure to indulge!SPOTIFY:https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3LOQH4oJw5xd9KnD5NO4gI?si=zMMoDs5fRXmKcwtQI5XNawAPPLE:https://music.apple.com/us/playlist/syco-femlock/pl.u-11zBJz1i8ybAGgG
Relationships: Johnlock, femlock - Relationship
Kudos: 2





	1. PART 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hi! my name is lana and i love this story a lot hope you enjoy reading it :)

**_PART 1_ **

_SYCOPHANTIC_


	2. 1. CHOCOLATE CREAM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VgKjHh1Y-1Y  
> MYSELF - BAZZI

**~JANE**

She’s so pretty when she flips her ponytail like that.  
She’s pretty when she glares at me, arms folded, foot tapping. She’s pretty when she rolls her eyes.   
“Can I get a name on that order?” I chirp, bat my eyelashes. Maybe this time she’ll tell me for real.   
“S.H.,” she pronounces, unwavering.   
Damn. It’s gonna be like that. “I’ll have that right out.”  
I take my time adding pumps of syrup, measuring the milk. I lean against the counter as it steams, and look at her again. Sometimes when I’m around her I have to pinch myself to see if I’m dreaming. I’m not.   
She catches my eye, practically sneers at me, and looks away. I follow suit. When she looks again, I let her. Because I want her to look at me, to like me--and also because the milk is ready. I finish her drink at my leisure. I have to savor this moment with her here.   
She unfolds her arms, acts like she wasn’t staring. But I know she’s guilty.   
“Finally,” she scoffs.   
I pretend I didn’t hear her, and wink. I can see the pink blooming in her cheeks, but this time she says nothing--the clock (let’s be real, it was my fault) has gotten the better of her today. She leaves in a huff without a thank you or goodbye.   
It doesn’t matter what I do, how I treat her, or what I say, this girl is unpleasant one-hundred percent of the time. Every morning I play the same flirting games with her; one, because it seems to upset her so much, which is funny, and two, at the bottom of it, I want her to warm up to me. Because she’s impossibly cold.   
She arrives earlier than usual the next morning, and instead of ordering her coffee straight from me, she seats herself in one of the booths overlooking the trainyard. Her arms and legs cross, conserving her body heat. She’s our only customer right now.   
“Good morning,” I say, eager to impress. “It’s cold out there!”  
She glares at me. I continue in spite of it. “We actually have a booth that’s right beneath the heating vent, if you wanted somewhere warmer to sit,” I inform her.  
She does not get up. “Are you going to come take my order or what?”   
I was just being nice, but suit yourself. She’s already moved on from barking orders to opening her briefcase. Working again, despite waking up on the wrong side of the bed.   
I’m not one for being pushed around, but I’ve got a weak spot for pretty girls. On top of that, I’ve never seen her eat anything. Today could be my lucky day. I approach her table with my notebook, and my eyes, ready.  
Her voice is cold and blunt as she proceeds to order the same exact thing she always does. It’s really annoying to me that she couldn’t just say, “I’ll have the usual,” from where she stood. It’s annoying that she had to bite first, like she’s punishing me for being nice.   
“Alright,” I say. I can match the her attitude, no problem. “A... hazelnut...latte…” I take my time. I write in my best handwriting. She drums her fingers on her arm.  
“Can I get anything else out here for you? We have burgers, pancakes, french toast…”  
She looks straight at my face for the first time since I approached. She looks so mad, and I can’t see why, because she’s the one who started this with me. But her grumpy face is so cute. I can’t take her seriously.  
For the briefest moment, she looks at my lips. I’m chewing gum, because it wakes me up in the morning. There’s something about her green eyes on my lips that makes me change my tune.  
My smile is apologetic. “I’ll have it right out for you, alright?”  
I hope she is looking at me walking away from her. I hope she is looking at me put up my hair. I look at her often. She just stares out the window.   
When I deliver her coffee to her table, she seems more relaxed.  
I watch from afar, the hot drink unfolding her. This is how she looks after she’s insulted me. This is how she sleeps at night.   
Before long her coat is shrugged off, the papers from her briefcase spread before her, her pens black, red, blue. She’s reading and rereading some important-looking documents. Taking notes, crossing things out, writing something big. A business woman, maybe? She’s always dressed nice, always smells expensive. Whatever she does, she’s paid well.   
I wander around the diner doing detail-cleanings on the tables, prepping for the breakfast rush. I am wiping the table behind her and peer over her shoulder. It’s hard to say decidedly what I am seeing. She could be a lawyer. I wish I could just ask her. I wish a lot of things.   
She leaves with the sunrise, boarding a train, I suppose.  
My phone vibrates in my pocket; it’s a text from Mary.

_work sucks :( can i come get a milkshake?_

  
I smile. “Defo,” I type. Send. It’ll be good to see her.   
She’s here within the hour, dressed in her scrubs. She seats herself at the bar. The rush is just about over. As soon as I’m finished, we’re free to socialize.   
“I’d hug you, but I’ve been cleaning up kid vomit all night.” She sighs and rests her head on the counter.  
“Sometimes I wish I never dropped out,” I sigh, “this is not one of those times.”  
“Hush, you! And get me a chocolate shake.” I know she’s only half-teasing. We’ve had this argument a hundred times over. In no time she’s got her shake and she’s happy as a bumblebee again.   
“So,” she muses, “What’s new with that S.H. girl?”   
As always, I give her the details. She listens, nods, maintains eye contact. She’s trying to be understanding, but with each update I give on the coffee girl, Mary likes her less and less. “No way,” she says. “I can’t believe she treats you like that! I could never like someone who was that awful to me.”  
“If only you could see her,” I sigh. “Then you’d understand.”   
Mary scrutinizes me for a moment, sucking her teeth in thought. She takes another swig and looks at her watch. “I should be getting back soon,” she says. “It takes me ten minutes to walk back, and another five or so through the hospital.  
“To-go cup?”  
“Please.”   
Mary watches me transfer the liquid. She’s being oddly quiet.   
“Hey Jane?”  
I look up.   
“Do you want to come over tomorrow night?”  
“I would, but I’ve got the night shift.”  
“Well what about tonight? I’ve got wine,” her voice is melodic and inviting. “Too much wine to finish by myself, I mean.”  
She’s cute, and she’s Mary, so I give in. “Yeah, I guess we can do tonight.”  
“Great! I’ll text you,” she says. Then she leans over the counter and hugs me goodbye.   
My fingers find the wet spot on my cheek. After all these years, Mary and I still have chemistry--though there are things the two of us know not to bring up with each other.   
The break-up, for example.  
She welcomes me in to her warmly-lit apartment. She’s wearing the same Hello Kitty crop top she’s had since college, and black yoga pants. She’s already handing me a glass of wine. I almost forget to take off my boots.   
She’s watching The Kardashians and eating popcorn. Back in the day, Paris was her poison. She looks at me sheepishly. “Do you wanna watch something else?” she asks.  
“No,” I say, “I want to watch this with you.”  
What do you call an ex-girlfriend you have sex with? Exes-with-benefits? I don’t know. Mary and I are that. With us, one thing has always lead to another.   
She was my first girlfriend. I’ve got a soft spot for her.   
We drink our wine and eat our popcorn and let the tv wipe the day from our brains. It feels like college again. Admittedly it has been a while since we’ve hung out in person. Mary was in another relationship for a while, but she ended it a few months ago. I thinks she’s recovered from it by now.   
When Mary is seeing someone else, she doesn’t see me as often. It rubs people the wrong way when they find out Mary’s best friend is her ex from college. I understand that she wouldn’t want to be seen too often with me. Mary says if they’re the right person for her, they’ll understand what we have. So far, it’s been none of them.  
On my end, I’ve chronically single my entire adult life. Not for a lack of trying. No one has excited me as much as I need them to.   
I push S.H. out of my mind. I’m with Mary tonight.   
We refill our glasses between commercials, hang out in the kitchen. In college, when we were roomates, we used to stay up and talk all night. We’d take turns sitting on the counter, the floor. We watched cookies bake, ate pickles out of the jar. We got drunk a lot. We laughed a lot.   
These days we’re less spontaneous, more reserved. She sits tall on a stool at the breakfast bar. I face her from the other side, leaning on the kitchen counter between us. We talk about work, the news, the internet. Soon there is nothing for us to talk about. And then for a little while, it’s like old times again.   
I wake up in her bed the next morning. She’s showering with the door open, an invitation, I assume. I do consider it for a moment, but decide against it. I pull on my pants and help myself to a bowl of her Special-K cereal. I pop my knuckles, my back. Mary left me little time to rest.   
I listen to the hushed drizzle of the shower, the water churning though the pipes in her apartment walls.   
It slowly comes back to me, as I stand and eat my breakfast; I woke up this morning from a dream about the girl at the diner. And that feels significant to me.   
I pop into the bathroom and raise my voice above the shower. “Hey! I’m heading out, okay?”  
“Oh, already?” she says. “No breakfast?”  
“I ate cereal,” I tell her.  
“Oh,” she says, “okay, well, be safe.”  
“You too,” I say. “I’ll see you later!”  
I shove my sneakers on and slip out the door.   
I do feel guilty. I can tell Mary wanted me to stay a while longer. But this is the way it has to be now.  
There’s snow on the streets, the morning sky grey and overcast. I slosh onward, hands in pockets, yank my beanie down over my ears. This is the lesbian walk of shame.   
I’ve never been more eager to ride a humid bus. We hang tight and sway on the straphangers, bump one another in a benign, lazy way. I have a few stops to go, so I take this time to close my eyes, enjoy the morning, and try to recall my dream.  
I dreamt of my night with Mary, but it was not Mary I was with. It not only felt incredibly real, I felt sadness when it was over. I woke up this morning longing for someone I don’t even know. Worse yet, I’m not even _mad_ about it.  
I’ve caught myself slacking. It’s something too deep and too far away to scratch at on a city bus at 10am.  
When I get up to my apartment, I kick off my shoes and crash into bed. I think very hard for a while in an effort to continue my dream. Elements of her appearance, like her dark curls, or her pointed lips. It doesn’t work. I don’t wake up again until the sky is dark.   
I try to have a good dinner, but the energy drink derails it. I’ve got a long night ahead of me. I head out again to catch the next bus. We got more snowfall while I slept.   
By the looks of S.H., you’d never assume she voluntarily chooses to stay up all night mysteriously doing paperwork in some dump near the train station; and you’d _never_ guess she does it almost every night of the week. And yet here she sits, glowing like the fairy from Pinocchio, granting wishes I never knew I had.  
As the hours pass I mop the mud from the floors and bring her refills and clear the empty cups from her table. Each cup is less and less smeared with lipstick as the night wears on. When this lady is in the zone, there’s no getting her out of it. Everything disappears off her radar until she decides she’s ready for contact again.   
Sometimes she gets up and paces. We’ve got a rack of postcards and souvinirs by the door, which she thumbs through absentmindedly. She never buys any. My coworkers think it’s annoying, but she’s so graceful when she walks, I don’t mind monitoring. When she’s thinking, she hugs herself, and gnaws on her lips.   
I wonder often what she looks like at home. On a couch. With her shoes off, when no one is watching.   
I wonder how she reacts to runs in her stockings. I fantasize about her begging me to run to the drugstore for her, it’s an emergency, and me saying yes dear, of course, and then going and doing that for her. In my mind she exists as this dark heiress, and I’m feeling more sycophantic than usual lately. At this point, it’s her own constant bitchiness that fuels this fantasy.   
I wipe the clean counters, fold silverware into napkins. She’s standing at her table now, which she’s covered with photographs. Her lips are moving rapidly, her finger pointed, connecting imaginary dots. She picks up a photo and examines it. Reads the paperwork underneath. Flops it on the seat.   
She goes on like that, creating a discard pile, scrutinizing all these photos, and then it dawns on me that if I don’t seriously try to get through to her, I will never really know what she’s doing. And that would be a major failure on my part. I need to break the silence.   
“You know,” I say, rasing my voice, so she can hear me from here. “Since you’re the only one here, it feels rude of me to not talk to you at all.”   
“Not rude,” she drones.   
“Well, I think it is.”  
She turns around to look at me. Her eyes are squinted, hands poised with attitude. She looks annoyed she even has to deal with me. “Remember like, five seconds ago,” she says, “when you were working quietly? That suits you.”   
Uh huh. Without taking my eyes off of her, I let the cook know through the window that I’m taking my lunch. Mrs. Hudson gives me the okay. I remove my apron and approach her table, and she watches, dumbfounded.   
“Take your break somewhere else,” she says. “I’m working.”  
I can’t give up yet. I need to press just a little further. I’ve got a good feeling about this. “Come on, would you really be doing all this at a diner if you didn’t want people to be curious about it?”  
“Be curious all you want, just do it away from here. And leave the reverse psychology to the professionals.”  
“See, that’s the kind of thing I’m talking about. You just gave me this little breadcrumb of mystery to follow, and now you’re not letting me follow it! Did you expect me to ignore it? Like you didn’t say anything?”   
She looks at me, and for a second, it’s different. “I was being condescending,” she says.  
My phone vibrates in my pocket.   
“I know,” I tell her. “Are you gonna invite me to sit or do I have to stand here for half an hour?”  
I hold my breath. If she says no again, I’ll have to stop. She’s looking me over, but it feels more like my character is being combed through.  
“Mystery breadcrumbs,” she repeats, laughing to herself.  
My phone vibrates a few more times. It really is not an ideal time. I stare into her face.   
“Go on, now,” she says. She has ended the conversation.   
I stand there, not knowing what to say. I totally failed. Do I apologize? For talking to someone I like? I don’t want to. I put my hands up, in surrender, and back away into the kitchen.   
When I get to my locker, I yank out my jacket and my wax pen. I open my phone to distract myself from my own clacking knees. Mary’s been blowing up my phone with memes. I guess she’s on her break, too.   
I ask her when she’s getting off. A few hours after me.   
I tell her to be at my place. She doesn’t refuse me.   
I smoke outside. When I return, her table is vacant.   
I’m angry. I feel inadequate. What do I have to do to get her to like me?   
“Jane, go slower,” Mary tells me. I have to cool down.   
“Sorry.” I’m just so frustrated.  
“What’s wrong with you?” she demands. “You seem angry.”  
“I’m not,” I say.  
“You are!” Mary argues.  
“No more talking,” I say. It is not a question. I end the conversation with Mary the same way S.H. ended it with me.   
The next day, S.H. orders her coffee from me. She still won’t tell me her name. I don’t say anything to her. I don’t play the game.  
Why does she come back? To torture me? To feel wanted?  
I see her on my next graveyard shift. I mind my business, keep my nose clean. Does she notice how much I’m leaving her alone right now?  
She’s sat at her table, reading a singular piece of paper.   
She doesn’t order coffee. She doesn’t open her briefcase. There is no color in her face.   
I’ve never seen a woman dressed as nicely as her lay her head down on a table in public. She sits like that and I really try to ignore it. I wait on other guests, clean things. But she lays like that for a while, facing the window. I doubt she’s asleep.  
People file in and out. She sits up every now and then, and stares forward, but she always ends up laying back down again.  
I can’t take any more of it. It feels wrong of me to not act.   
I do the least confrontational thing I can imagine. I put a piece of our special chocolate cream pie in a small to go box, and place it on her table as I walk by.   
She startles. I pretend not to see her as I take another order at a different table. Even in the back of my head, I am aware of her opening the box. Closing the box.  
Leaving.   
I put in the order for the other table.   
I expected her to leave without the pie. She didn’t.  
S.H. accepted my gift. 


	3. 2. BOARDING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/IYyjiP4O00Y  
> CHEAP QUEEN - KING PRINCESS

**_~JANE_ **

I wake up wishing I had work today. Never a good sign.   
I rub my eyes and stare up at my ceiling fan. The house and the bed beside me are cold. I huddle deep beneath the blankets and check my phone.   
Mary’s been texting me. It’s past midday. 

_m.morstan sent a post_

_m.morstan sent a post_

_JANE LOOK_

I read them in my notification bar, but I don’t respond just yet. It’s too early. I scroll for a while, catch up on the news, read my emails. I shower, listen to music. 

_omg cool_

_j.watson liked a post_

I sit on my couch in my towel and watch TV. I eat a bagel with cream cheese. When I’m dressed, I grab my longboard and sit on the floor with it. The wheel has been loose for a while, but because of the ice, I haven’t seen the point in fixing it. But it’s easy enough to tighten the screw. When I finish, I prop it up against the doorframe and don’t return for a while.   
I hang out in my bedroom for a while, scrolling on my phone. I spend some time in the bathroom, and the kitchen. I follow the path of the sunlight around my apartment. There are only so many rooms.   
The TV is still on. I sit again on the couch and watch for a while, until my phone pings again.   
When Mary gets here, she points to the longboard propped by the door.   
“Wow,” she says, “Haven’t seen that thing in a while! Are you skating again?”  
Mary used to skate with me. We used to stay late at the skatepark in the summer and make out behind the ramps. We stopped because Mary said she’d grown out of it. I don’t know how to tell her I never really stopped.   
“Yeah,” is all I say.  
She stays the night. Waking up to thoughts of S.H. has become a common thing now. Mary stays asleep in the bed. She knows she’s welcome. She wakes up, only a little, to say goodbye. 

***

I regret romanticizing work once I get there. And showing up twenty minutes early. It’s freezing cold and the winter sun is unrelenting. I count down the hours. Two more until she arrives.   
When she does get here it all makes sense again, the pining and the suffering and all that. I look at her face, and it makes sense.   
She looks at me, too. This time, it’s me averting my eyes.   
I serve the people in front of her. She stands, arms crossed, chewing her lips. I savor the moments I get to look at her. The sun illuminates parts of her figure, and casts the rest in shadow. I savor the idea that I am three customers away from her, two orders away from her, one more drink away from her.   
She rests her wallet on the counter. It’s Coach.   
“Good morning!” I say to her. I hope it doesn’t sound funny coming out. The more I realize how much I like her, the more self-conscious I get.   
“Morning,” she replies. “The usual, please.”   
It’s so quiet, so non-confrontational of her, I almost think I’ve got the wrong girl.   
“No problem,” I say. “Order for S.H.?”   
“Silvya,” she says. “For Silvya.”  
Did I hear that correctly? This must be the wrong girl after all. She pulls out her card and sticks it into the chip machine without looking at or speaking to me again, but I see right through it. I can’t help but grin. “I’ll get that right out for you.”   
I don’t take my time. I don’t wanna push my luck. And I feel like it’s mean-spirited of me to make her late if she’s not being a nightmare.   
I hand her her drink. I tell her to have a nice day. She doesn’t leave yet.   
“You’ve been here a while now.” It’s not a question.   
“Oh yeah, I only started around two months ago.”   
“I see.” She drinks her coffee, even though I know for a fact it’s still too hot for anyone to drink. She doesn’t flinch. “Since you’re here now, you won’t be here tonight?”   
Do you want me to be here tonight?   
“No,” I say, “not tonight. Tomorrow night.”   
“Tomorrow night,” she repeats.   
“Those are my hours.”   
She nods. Then she’s gone.   
So I got through to her after all.  
Silvya. Silvya.   
I’m startled to see her again in the afternoon. She’s never returned so early before.   
She stomps the mud off her heels and waits at the counter. One of my coworkers attempts to help her as I take care of a table. By the time I make it up there, she’s gone. She left a note. 

_Thank you_

_Sorry_

_-S.H._

I grin to myself, rejoice inwardly. I keep the note in my pocket all day.   
Work gets out late in the afternoon. I take the bus home. I think of Silvya.   
The snow in and around my apartment complex has melted into puddles on the sidewalk. I think I can take the longboard out soon.   
My apartment is warm. It smells like Mary in here.   
She cleaned. The dishes are done, the coats hung up. She organized my fridge. 

_thank u for cleaning u didn’t have to :(_

_m.morstan liked your message_

_i didn’t really clean anything i just rearranged <3 _

I sigh. Of course she’d put it that way. I text Mary for a while, tell her about the note. I eat a microwave burrito, watch TV.   
I wake up at 3pm the next day. More of the snow has melted.   
I skate around the block for a while, then the city tempts me. It’s still freezing, but warmer than it’s been. The wind in my hair is worth it.   
I’m on my way to work when my wheel hits a rock. I land face-first.   
My skull pounds, my ears ring. My mouth tastes like blood. It’s dark now, I’ve got to get up. I’ve got to catch my breath again.   
I evaluate my body. Nothing is broken, but my hands and face are scraped. It would’ve been worse had I not been wearing my thick winter pants. At any rate, I’ve survived worse. Once I’ve regained my balance, I get back on my board and get to work in time to clean up before my shift starts.   
My face aches, but it dulls as the night wears on, and my scrapes scab over quickly.   
Silvya is running very late. She usually arrives an hour after sunset to do her paperwork, but tonight, she doesn’t arrive until well after eleven at night. I was beginning to think she won’t show.   
I greet her when she approaches. I’m trying to be nonchalant.   
“Evening,” she says. Immediately she notices my injuries. The bruises have gotten uglier. She doesn’t say anything.   
“Coffee?” I ask her.   
“Usual,” she says, still watching my face.   
I put the order in quietly. “Is it for Silvya or S.H. this time?” I ask. There’s a small smile on my face.   
“For Silvya,” she says. She puts her card in the machine.   
Something seems off about her right now. I can’t tell if it’s the state of me that’s making her nervous or something else entirely. Whatever it is, I can’t put my finger on it.   
“Did you get my note yesterday?” she asks.   
“I did,” I say.  
“Sorry,” she says.   
“I accept your apology.”  
Her eyes seem to twinkle.   
“What happened to your face?” she asks.  
“I’ll tell you,” I say, “but only if you tell me something about you.”  
She looks at me. She seems mildly amused.   
“When’s your shift over?”  
“About an hour.”  
“Walk with me?”   
“Yeah,” I say. “We can take a walk.”  
“Okay great,” she gives me a faux smile. In the same breath she pops the lid off her cup, pulls a Bailey’s shooter out of her coat pocket, and dumps it into her coffee. It doesn't register what just happened until she's walking away, but then I know what it is that's off about her.  
“I’ll see you then,” I say.   
But Silvya is gone in a heartbeat.


	4. 3. TRICKS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/SQdgdWayPhQ  
> SOFTLY - CLAIRO

_**~JANE** _

“So you fell off your board,” Silvya says. “Do you fall often?”   
Do I fall often? Well that depends. What kind of falling are we talking about?  
“Funny,” I say. “Do you always carry shots around with you?”   
“No comment,” she says.  
“No comment, huh.” I thought we weren’t doing that anymore.   
We haven’t been walking very long. I’m not sure where we’re going. It doesn’t matter to me. All around us the city sounds echo, along with her high heels, crispy on the concrete.   
“Aren’t you cold, wearing those?” I ask.  
“Yes,” she says. She offers me a drink, which I accept, but what kind of person drinks Bailey’s and Fireball in the same night?   
“You don’t do this every night, do you?”  
“You’re asking if I work eighty hours a week and then get wasted every night?”   
“I guess when you put it that way,” I laugh in concession. “But you can’t get mad at me for guessing about you when you’re not giving me a thing to work with.”  
Silvya watches her feet for a while, then stops walking. “Why guess?” she asks.   
I’ve stopped a few paces ahead of her. She stands before me in the cold dark, looking at anything but me.   
“What do you mean?”  
“I mean,” she sighs, “why, after all the mean shit I did, do you still like me?”   
“I never said I _liked_ you,” I say.  
“You didn’t have to.”  
I laugh, and sigh. “Have you never been hit on before?”  
“I have,” she says, defensive.   
“Then why’s it so hard to believe that I’d want to get to know you?”  
She’s looking at me now. We’re standing before an empty parking lot. Now it’s my turn to avoid her eyes.   
“Anyway,” I say, “Have you been on a longboard before?” 

***

The lot is littered with road salt. With my sneakers I kick and scrape a nice area on the asphalt to practice on. She sits on a low concrete wall and watches me. I hope she doesn’t think I look stupid. I hope she’s having a good time.   
I extend my hand out to her. She’s tentative in her steps towards me. Her fingers are red, freezing, soft. Pretty, like her. In her heels, she steps up onto the board.   
“That’s it,” I say. “Just hold on, and find your balance.”  
She’s nervous, watching her feet, shivering. She grips my hand.  
“This isn’t so bad,” she says.  
“It’s better when you can actually go somewhere on it,” I say.   
I feel her look at the scabs on my face.  
“We’re gonna move,” I say. I pull her slowly by the hand.  
She wobbles, her hands fly instinctively to my shoulders. I feel the weight of them there, the pressure of her fingers gripping me. We laugh together, purely out of nerves. I hold her at the elbows, and side-step to move the board. She’s watching the ground. Our faces are close. She won’t look at me.   
“Okay, I get the gist,” she chitters, “I’ve seen enough.”  
I help her down.   
“It’s less scary without heels.”  
“Goes without saying, I think.”  
“Was it fun, at least?”  
“Insufficient data,” she says. “I need to collect more.”   
“Ah,” I say, though I don’t understand. She walks past me and reclaims her seat on the wall.   
“Do you know tricks?” she asks.  
“Yeah,” I say, electric.   
“Show me?” she asks. I thought she would never.   
“Alright,” I say, “if I show you, you have to promise something.”   
“Go on.”   
“You have to promise not to be overwhelmed,” I say, “because I’m about to get thirty times cooler than I am right now.”   
“Oh really!” she exclaims. “Let’s see it, then.”   
“Alright, I’m about to blow your mind, watch this.”   
I do a kickflip, then theatrically take a bow. She boos me.   
“Come on now, be serious,” she chides.   
Is it the alcohol making me lightheaded, or is it the presence of her? Asking such a stupid question on its own is enough to know it’s the booze.   
“I can make it spin a full three times, if you watch close.” I fail twice before getting it, but failing is worth it to hear her laugh, even at the expense of me. When she applauds me, my whole definition of success changes. I show her a few more simple ones, and for the first time ever, she cheers my name. I’d do anything to get her to do that again.   
If it were warmer, I could do more. For now I settle on making her laugh.   
I join her at the wall. I lean next to her with my hips. We finish the last shooter.   
We don’t talk at first, watching cars go by, listening for faraway sounds.   
“Thanks,” she says. “For this. I’ve had the shittiest week.”   
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.   
“I should probably get home,” she says.   
“Oh.” My chest feels like a deflated birthday balloon. “Yeah, me too probably.”   
“Would you walk me?” she asks. “It’s not far.”  
“Of course,” I say. I’m trying not to sound too eager.   
I offer my hand, and help her up. She walks with her arms hugging her body, twisting her coat close. I fight the urge to put my arm around her. Her body is telling me not to touch. We walk slow, so she doesn’t slip. She’s chewing her lip. Thinking. When I watch her think, and pace around the diner, and touch all the postcards, I wonder. What kind of person thinks so deeply they forget their whole body, or at least ceases to care? One night I watched her sit and stare out the window for a whole hour. All at once I feel pressure to ask her questions and remain silent.   
“You have a lot of tattoos,” she says.   
I’m a little taken aback. Seeing as my arms are hidden, and this isn’t a last-ditch attempt at a conversation, this tells me she was thinking _organically_ about my tattoos. And it’s not as if she’s asked me a question, she’s made an observation about me which stuck with her. A flattered satisfaction flows through me at the thought of her thinking about me, the image of her with the image of me in her mind.   
“Yeah,” I say, “I’ve done a lot of them myself.”  
I pull my hands out of my pockets. She looks up.   
I point out the ones on my hands, the knuckles. I explain the circumstances of each. The good, the bad, the first, the last, the meaningful, the pure aesthetic. She listens, and looks, and doesn’t interrupts me until we’ve arrived.  
“My apartments are just down the hill,” she says.   
I think I get the hint. “You sure you should walk the rest by yourself?” I ask.   
Then she flips her hair, looks right at me, and says, “No.”   
So I go with her. 

***

I’d never look at Silvya and think she’d be the type of woman to keep a house like this, but at the same time, a piece of the puzzle that is Silvya falls right into place. Modern, cool-toned furniture fills the cramped space. Books occupy every square inch, every shelf, the table, every chair in the room, piled high up the sides of the walls and backs of furniture. Old mugs of tea rest on simple glass coffee table. The dining room table is cloaked in documents. The kitchen wall has three large whiteboards hung and all three are covered with notes in black and red. Magnetized photos dot the space, connections drawn between them. It immediately strikes me, but I don’t process the image.   
I rest my longboard against the doorframe. Silvya’s instructed me to wait out here while she cleans her bathroom for me. When she emerges, she invites me to sit on the singular clear cushion on the grey couch. It’s one of those couches with the long seat on the end, with squashy cushions and skinny legs. My sofa isn’t nearly as nice or as new as this. Somewhere, a clock ticks. Hurriedly she clears the coffee table, and puts a kettle on. Watching her rush around the house like this is surreal, after all the time I spent wondering about her.   
“Silvya,” I say, “what’s with the whiteboards?”  
She’s clearing the books from the cushion next to me, transferring them in armfuls to the stacks against the wall. She’s so much smaller without her heels on.   
“Oh, I haven’t told you.” She exhales and sits next to me, on the middle cushion. Her feet are bare, tucked and curled behind one another. My attention is fully captured. Her cheeks, the tips of her ears, her nose, still red from the cold. There’s a tall lamp in the corner that casts soft light onto every surface, illuminating her from behind.   
“Solving murders is the family business.”  
I’m aware of my mouth falling open, though it isn’t a conscious decision. “For real?”  
“My family are all police detectives. It’s like Blue Bloods,” she says.  
“I’ve heard of it,” I say, “but I haven’t seen it.”  
“Well, neither have I, but it’s like that.”   
I shake my head. “Wait, so do you have a badge?”   
“I just said I don’t work for the police.”   
“Explain your job, then?”  
“I have an IQ of 190.”  
“Is that good?”  
“Einstein was 160.”   
“Jesus,” I say.   
“I’m good at solving crimes,” she says. “But I refuse to finish the schooling. I don’t need it.”   
“Wow,” I say. “I get that. I dropped out of nursing school.”  
“How come?” she asks.   
I don’t feel equipped to be responsible for the life of another human being. “It wasn’t for me,” I say. “But you’d think a degree in criminology or something wouldn’t _hurt_ to have?”   
“That’s what everyone says. But you don’t know me when I’m on a case.”   
She looks me in the eye. I hold her gaze, and don’t say anything, in fear of ruining it. But I don’t have to. The electric kettle is done boiling. I watch her stand and pass me. I pivot towards the kitchen when her back is turned.   
“Would you like coffee? Tea? I have hot chocolate, too,” she says.   
“Are we sobering up now?” I ask.  
“Warming up,” she says. “But if vodka is more up your alley, we can continue that.”   
“Mixing doesn’t sound like a good idea,” I laugh. “I’ll take a hot chocolate, then.”   
This too is surreal, watching her make _me_ a drink. I worry that the water is going to make the drink gross, but then she adds creamer and a piece of actual chocolate wrapped in foil to melt. For herself, a cup of tea.   
“So all those hours you spend at the diner, you’re solving murders?”   
She places my cup on the table in front of me. As she sits, I read the spines on the corner of the table diagonal to me. All of them are non-fiction, crime-related, and oddly-specific. There are dictionaries for several different languages laying around, German, Latin, Greek, Spanish, Mandarin.   
“Yes,” she says. “It’s the only place that’s always open, besides McDonald’s.” She curls up in a ball, tucking her feet. She rests her shoulder against the stack of books beside her.   
“Can you talk about the cases you work on?” I ask.   
“I try not to,” she says. “But I’m not legally bound or anything like that, seeing as they won’t put me on payroll, no matter how many cases I solve for them.”   
“Wait,” I say, “you said before you worked eighty hours a week?”  
“Correct.”   
“That’s insane.”   
She shrugs, and sips her tea. “It’s what I love,” she says. “And I’m trying to prove a point.”  
Of course. I could’ve guessed stubbornness would be a motivator for her.   
“What point would that be?”  
She quiets down, stares into space over her mug. “It’s not that important.”   
I refuse to believe that, but I understand if she doesn’t wanna tell me. I nod, and taste my hot chocolate.  
“This is good,” I say, “thank you.”  
She smiles a little. When she smiles, it’s tight-lipped, subdued, and fleeting. She puts her mug on her lips immediately, to hide it.   
“I like your apartment,” I say.  
“It’s a mess,” she says.   
“It’s a good mess,” I assure. “I love books, but I don’t read nearly enough.”  
“There’s a lot I haven’t read, but I definitely will someday, when the case arises. People are always coming up with new ways of killing each other and covering it up.”   
Her face hardens. She stares into her tea.  
“It must take a toll on you.”  
“No,” she says. “I am sufficiently detached.”   
“I can see that,” I say. I’m really facing her now. She remains curled, inaccessible, but she does look me in the scabby, ugly face again. I smile at her, because she’s squinting at me, unsure if she should be annoyed with me. “It’s okay,” I say, “I would be too, if I did your job.”   
I sit back and enjoy my drink. She offers no response.   
“Are you working on a case right now?”  
“I just finished one.”   
“How long did it take you?”   
“Two weeks.”   
“Is that fast?”   
“Depends on the case,” she sips, “but yeah, it was pretty fast, considering.”   
“Considering what?”   
She looks at me a moment, unsure. “Considering the state of the body.”   
“I see.” I shiver. I can’t imagine.   
“Me solving the case doesn’t matter too much. It’s up to the _real police_ ,” she rolls her eyes, “to take action. I put the pieces together and they do the paperwork and make the arrests.”   
“Who did it?”   
“The husband,” she says.  
Yikes. I drink. I’m not feeling as tipsy anymore.   
“How do you make your money, then? If you don’t mind me asking.”  
“I have a business on the side. A blog.”   
“Deadass?” I put my cup down. “Can I see it?”   
“You want to?”   
“Of course I want to,” I laugh. “Why wouldn’t I?”  
I watch her stand and cross the room. There’s a desk by an old TV, but it doesn't look like it's been used in a long while. She unplugs her laptop and brings it to me.   
She shows me a grey screen with yellow letters that read _THE SCIENCE OF DEDUCTION.  
_ “People can email me.”   
She scrolls down to reveal dozens of entries, and still the webpage continues. I catch glimpses of the titles. One of them is called, _45 DIFFERENT TYPES OF CIGARETTE ASH.  
_ “What is the science of deduction?” I ask.   
“It's how I solve cases. I illustrate the entire process for the sake of the client, the police, and the world.” She closes the laptop. When she turns her head, I swear the tips of her ears are pink. I wonder how often she explains this to others. She places it on the coffee table and retreats again to her defensive position.   
“That is very impressive,” I say. “Makes me wonder what kind of life I'm living.” It's my turn to look into my cup.   
“What do you do, besides work at the diner?”   
“Good question,” I say. “Is that vodka still on the table?”   
I can feel her looking at me again. “You're avoiding the question.”   
It seems Silvya is slow to self-awareness, but she catches on soon enough. When she stands, I stand with her.   
“Chaser?” she asks.   
“What do you have?”   
“Orange juice.”   
“That's perfect.”   
She pours us a shot and a glass each.   
“Cheers,” I say, and our glasses _clink._ Each of us, down the hatch.   
I don't take shots often anymore. My throat burns all the way down, into my belly. I cough, flush it with juice. Silvya looks completely composed.   
“Good?” she asks, with a hint of smugness.   
“Yeah I'm good,” I roll my eyes. “I went to college, you know.”   
“How long?”   
“Long enough,” I sigh. “I'm never going back.”   
“I hear you,” she says. She's prepared another shot, and extends it to me. I'm not about to pussy out in front of a pretty girl, so I take it. It hurts more the second time. The juice is a godsend.   
“Alright, I'm gonna ask another personal question, if that's okay.”   
She looks like she wants to say something, but she keeps her lips tight. She shrugs in what I believe is approval.   
“Do you like women?” I ask.  
She looks at me.   
“It's fine,” I say.   
“I know it's fine.”   
The clock ticks.   
“I mean. I assume you like women, if you're here with me, if I'm in your home after all this.” I'm choosing my words carefully. “I just want to be absolutely sure.”   
“I like women,” she says. Her green eyes are piercing me.  
“Do you like men?” I ask.   
She leans with her back against the counter. I try not to look past her at the murder board. She folds her arms and chews her lips.   
“Do you like men?” she asks.   
“I used to think so,” I say. “Not anymore.”   
“I’m not sure,” she says. “I don’t think about it.”   
I know this isn’t true. I know she’s probably like me and grew up her whole life wondering why boys never worked out, why she didn’t like them as much as other girls seemed to. Probably also wondering what was wrong with her. To say she doesn’t think about it is to say she really can’t stop thinking about it. Silvya is hugging her arms, looking at something away from me, something in the living room. It’s time to change the subject.   
“I hear ya,” I say. “It’s really not worth thinking about. But you know what is worth thinking about?” I pull out my phone, and queue up a song.   
“I have a speaker,” she says. She moves back into the living room to turn it on. Before long the whole apartment is filled with music.   
We sit back down on the couch together. She asks to read the lyrics. She shows me a song. We take turns like this, listening, roasting, complementing. She reads the lyrics to every song she listens to. She says she can like any song as long as the words are beautiful, which is beautiful in itself. I learn that when she was young, her parents forced her to take classical violin, which she won awards for in school tournaments. She doesn’t own a violin currently and says she doesn’t miss it.   
I tell her about my brother, how we spent our summers at the pool all day while both parents worked. Neighbors houses, family members’ houses. I don’t tell her about Harry’s drinking.   
We take more shots. She asks me endless questions about my tattoos, pointing to each one, touching the raised lines on my arms. I tell her which ones are professionally done, when I got them, why I chose each artist. She listens to me closely, with heavy eyes and a tired smile. I’ve seen this look before, but never from Silvya.   
We keep the music low. It’s gotten so late.   
“Do you work tomorrow?” she asks.   
“Yes, but late again,” I say.   
She nods and doesn’t say anything, like she’s making a mental note. I laugh. My head is dizzy and my eyes are warm.   
“I have an idea,” she says. She leaves, and when she comes back, she sits down closer to me, closer than ever, and presents to me one of the nicest-looking blunts I’ve ever seen.   
If I wasn’t in love before, I’m in love now.   
She lights it up for me. Her apartment hazes up. She asks if I can do tricks. I show her cheerios, she shows me bane. Impressive, I tell her. I can taste her chapstick on the wrap. She’s laughing at everything I say. I don’t even know what’s on the radio anymore because she’s kissing me. My hands fly up to her face, she’s so warm, and her breath is sugary, and her hair smells so good.   
The blunt burns in the ashtray. It’s just her right now.   
Lips, teeth, our noses.   
I want her to come out for me. 


	5. 4. SOMETHING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/NPQn3oZcCPQ  
> SLIDE THRU - BLACKBEAR

**_~JANE_ **

_Being like  
_ _this  
_ _with her, in her bedroom, all  
_ _flesh and blood, her fingers  
_ _and mine, all  
_ _wrapped and curled  
_ _in hair and each  
_ _other, music wafting still  
_ _from the front room, music  
_ _Coming from here, too, coming  
_ _from us, too_

Her hair smells like salon shampoo, and drapes cold over her shoulders. Her skin tastes like salt. In the heat of the moment she is humorless, but it’s not drab. She’s focused, all sighs. I can’t tell if she trusts me, because I don’t know what trust looks like on her face.   
I’ve been with girls like her, I know how fleeting this is. I take my time with her, savoring her, committing her reactions to me in my memory.   
“Is this okay?” I ask her.  
“Yes,” she says. She repeats it to me over and over.  
I am so grateful to be here. I give her everything I have. I don’t stop until she asks me to, with her hand on my cheek, pulling me up. I love the way her lips move on mine, spent and speaking to me between huffs of air. I wonder what she is thinking about, if I am consuming her thoughts or if there is more there, behind those eyes.   
Silvya, in her actions towards me, is shy at first. But she knows what she’s doing. I find patterns in her ceiling, until I can no longer pay attention to anything.  
I ask her, in my most tender voice, if there is anything else I could do for her. My question is genuine. I want seconds, thirds, fourths, I want to show her more. She laughs at me, but not like before, not mean-spiritied or gloating. This laugh is buoyant, exhausted, and satisfied.   
Our skin sticks everywhere we touch. My cheek to her chest, our thighs, arms, and shins. I can feel the heat radiating from her.   
Her bedroom is like the rest of the house, just with clothes. Nice clothes, strewn out over chairs and spilling out of drawers. A complete disregard is shown in this room.   
We drink water together. We sit up in her bed, close. She tells me how long it’s been since she’s had a visitor.  
“There’s no way,” I say. “Two years?”  
“Only nearly,” she pouts. “No, I just. I don’t know. It doesn’t happen often.”  
“Does this mean I’m special?” I laugh.   
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, so I take it as a yes.  
“I don’t even have friends over very often.”  
“How often are we talking?” I pry.  
“Never,” she admits.  
I’m laughing at her, but it’s a front. What I really want is to tell her I can fix her problem. I want to tell her I’d come over every day and every night if she’d have me. I’d be here every day. I want to tell her I haven’t had it this bad for somebody this early on since college. The thing is, I’m not even sure of these feelings myself. Even I don’t know how they’ll last.   
“I only have one friend nowadays,” I say. “Her name is Mary.”  
“You have her name tattooed on you,” she says.   
My heart jumps. I forget I have it. It’s on the right side of my back, on my ribs. It’s small, but dark, in a place I rarely see. She has my name on her too, in the same place. Hers is in cursive.  
I’ve had this conversation with almost every person I’ve slept with who sees this tattoo. Sometimes I lie and say it’s for Mother Mary, but I don’t want to lie to Silvya, even if I still could. I laugh sheepishly. “Mary was my girlfriend for a long time. We don’t work for each other long-term but we’re still great friends. She’s important to me. We’re family.”  
“I see,” Silvya says. I can tell she’s still sitting with the information.  
“You should meet her,” I say. “We were in nursing school together, except she’s better than me, so she finished. She visits the diner during the day, too--”  
“You still sleep with her.” Silvya’s not asking me a question.   
I tense up. “How do you figure?”  
“Deduction,” she says. “Detectivework.”  
“Even in the bedroom?”  
“Especially in the bedroom,” she says, and kisses me, and then we laugh, and the tension is gone, and everything is okay again. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I was only making an observation.”  
“I guess it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to guess, either.”  
Silvya shrugs.   
“You tend to rub people the wrong way, you know that?”  
“Yes,” she says. “I don’t always realize how badly the truth could hurt someone. I live by the truth.”  
“Do you, now?”  
“Yes. And truth be told, a lot of the time I do realize the truth will hurt someone, and I still tell them. A lot of the time I’m bad to people and I don’t know why.”  
“Seems like a good question to ask a therapist,” I say.   
“Yes,” she says, but I can tell by her tone that this conversation is already over.   
“This week was bad,” she says.   
“Tell me about your week,” I say.   
She tosses me a pajama set. A really nice one, two pieces, silky and blue. Hers is a deep plum.   
“I solved a case for the police.” She plops back down onto the bed. “They didn’t have all the evidence to convict the prime suspect. So I found them the evidence. In return, they gave me a letter. They told me this was my final warning about crime scenes.”  
“What do you mean, your final warning?”  
“Lestrade calls me to those scenes,” she huffs. “They’re treating me like I’m a crazy rando who just _enjoys collecting evidence from the scene of a murder._ I already _told_ him what to look at and he _didn’t._ ” She scowls. “They say the next time I’m caught _tampering with the crime scene_ , I’ll be in actual trouble. But then Lestrade gets all the credit once again for closing the case, and I get scolded.” She leans back against the pillows.  
I think it would be a lot less legally damaging to just go to school and get a degree, but I figure it’s not my place to tell her what to do.  
“Wow,” I say. “It’s a man’s world, I guess.”  
“Lestrade isn’t that bad,” she says. “I don’t mind him actually. It’s just frustrating.”  
“I bet,” I say. “I’m sorry you’re getting treated like this.”  
Her tableside clock says 4:57am. It’s still surreal to think that 24 hours ago, this was only a fantasy in my head.   
“By the way,” I say, “anytime you need me to leave, just let me know, and I’ll be out pronto.”   
“Do you want to leave?”  
No. But I don’t want her to get me like this. I want her to tell me she wants me to stay.   
“I don’t mean that, I just mean it won’t hurt my feelings. If you want me to stay, I will. If you want me to go, I’m gone.”  
“Okay,” she says. “You’re welcome to stay. It won’t hurt my feelings if you go.”  
Evil. She grins at me.   
“You need me to ask you to stay, don’t you?”  
“It would ease my mind, yeah,” I say.  
“Fine,” she says. “Jane, would you like to stay the night?”

***

It’s colder than hell this morning, but it doesn’t even bother me.   
I’ve got color in my cheeks, a skip in my step. I know where I am, and traffic is light. I can make my way to the nearest station.   
Mary sent me a few memes last night. Even though I’d been using my phone all night, I hadn’t noticed her in my notifications. I can’t wait to tell her everything. I pull her number up on my phone and send a facetime request. It’s her day off, so she answers wearing her puffy pink housecoat. Immediately, her face hardens in confusion.  
“Are you outside? Where are you?”   
“Guess,” I say.  
“ _Jane_ ,” she warns.   
“I just got back from Silvya’s house.”  
She watches me, chewing her cereal. It sounds like she’s watching cartoons.   
“The coffee girl?”  
“That’s the _only_ Silvya, so yes,” I sigh.   
“Oh,” she says. “Good job.”  
“Mary, she’s the best, I can’t even describe it. She’s smart and cool and,” Mary isn’t watching me on the screen. Mary is looking at the tv. She could just be tired. It is 9am, after all, but I can’t help myself. I tell her everything; about the drinks, and the longboard, and the tattoos, and the music. Mary is nodding, and listening, and reacting correctly, but mainly she lets me talk.   
“She’s a cop,” I say, “but not a cop. She’s like an amateur detective.”  
“Wow,” she says.   
“She has her own website.”  
“Wow,” she says.   
“Yeah, and her skin is green and she’s got vampire fangs.”  
“What?”  
“I was just making sure you were listening.”  
“Why wouldn’t I be listening?”  
“I don’t know, you’re not as excited about this as I am.”   
“Well, she’s not _my_ new love interest.”  
“Come on, Mary, you know what I mean, don’t play dumb.”  
“I’m not playing dumb!” she laughs. “I’m excited for you, Jane, really.”  
She gets up and walks into the kitchen. She props her phone up, so I can see her rinsing her bowl.   
“I guess I’m just not convinced,” she says. “You describe her one way but the things you tell me about her _actions_ towards you paint a different picture.”  
“It’s not like that,” I say.  
“You say that, but we’ve been through this before.”  
“You haven’t met her. I know how it sounds, but I promise you, she’s great, and everything is fine.”   
“Uh huh, yeah I hear you. What else happened? Anything this morning?”  
I grin as the memory floods over me. Silvya woke up at 7:30am and told me she had to go to work. If I’d known she had work, I wouldn’t have kept her up so long. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.   
“Well,” I say, “She told me I could stay as long as I needed, use anything in the house, and she said I didn’t have to lock the door.”  
“What? She doesn’t lock her door? Why?”  
In the moment, I asked Silvya the same question. I can still hear the way she said, _“Because I don’t care,”_ before bidding me farewell and closing me, a near-total stranger, in her house.   
“I don’t know,” I lie.  
“That’s weird.”   
“You’d understand if you met her.”  
“You want me to _meet_ her?”  
“She doesn’t have friends.”  
“I can see why.”  
“You don’t wanna meet my future girlfriend?”  
“ _Is she_ your future girlfriend, though?”  
“I mean, I want her to be,” I say. “We swapped numbers.”   
“So is it really a good idea to introduce your _future girlfriend_ to your _ex girlfriend?_ ”  
“Yeah, but you and I are past all that,” I say. “We’ve come full circle, I think.”  
She sighs, watching the TV again. “Whatever you say.”  
“You’ll love her, I promise, but I gotta go, I’m at the bus stop now. I’ll call you later.”  
“Yeah,” she says. “Be safe.”  
“You too,” I say, before hanging up the phone. 

***

It’s mid-afternoon when my phone goes off. I scramble for it, and my heart stops when I see who it is on my lockscreen. 

_It’s me  
_ _-S.H._

She’s so funny. 

_i know it’s u silly  
_ _how are u!!!_

_I’m okay, doing work for a client._

_sounds intense  
_ _what’s goin on_

_Lost cat  
_ _Drab_

_isn’t that a bit below ur pay grade?_

_The cat belongs to the daughter of some government official and she’s very upset about it_

_ohhhhhh_

She’s not a very lively texter. I’m not sure what else to say, but I’m desperate to keep the conversation going. 

_thanks for letting me stay this morning, and not rushing me out lol  
_ _did u have time to get ur coffee?_

She takes a little longer to respond. I lay back down in bed, with my phone on my chest. When it vibrates, I pick it right back up again. 

_Yeah I did :)_

_from the diner?_

_I grabbed a bottled coffee from a gas station._

_aw that’s no good_

I pause. I could send a risky text right now. What have I got to lose? I type it up. 

_next time i’ll wake up earlier and make you some real coffee_

Fuck. I’m scared. Come on, Jane. Don’t be a pussy.   
Sending. Delivered.   
I pat myself on the back. The hard part is over.  
She leaves me on delivered for a painful few minutes. I watch my ceiling fan. I wonder if she’s doing this on purpose, playing a game with me, enjoying the power she has. To build me up, or break me down. Relinquishing power is one of the best and worst parts of having a new crush. I’m in pain, agony, but it’s envigorating. I can feel my heart pumping in my eardrums. When my phone vibrates again, my pulse spikes. 

_Oh yeah?_

God, she’s killing me. 

_yeah  
_ _breakfast too_

I spend a few more painful minutes on delivered. 

_You cook?_

_sometimes_

By sometimes, I mean almost never. But like anyone, I can cook a mean breakfast. She’s not shutting me down, or avoiding my offer. I think a third risky text is in order. 

_on special occasions_

She’s typing. I take a screenshot and send it to Mary. 

_That would be fun_

Yes! I sit up and cheer. 

_yeah?_

_Yeah *thumbs up*_

_:) cool_

She reads it and doesn’t reply. I wish we could keep talking, but I let it rest. Mary texts me back a bunch of shocked emojis. 

_m.morstan liked your image_

_bolddddd_

I spend the rest of my day on cloud nine. I dance with myself as I clean my apartment. All the songs on my playlist sound especially melodious, the words applying to the feelings in my chest and thoughts about Silvya. Food tastes great. I get flashes of memories of the way she looked or sounded or the things she did and have to stop in my tracks to relive it in full.   
I’m so curious about her. I can’t believe she called me out about Mary, without a shred of remorse. She’s cold, ruthless, but she’s real. That’s not to say that anyone else I meet is less real, or even “fake”, it’s just that Silvya doesn’t care about being anyone else for anyone else’s pleasure. She is just Silvya.   
I want to know about her family. I want to know about her job, her college experience. The sheer pompousness of not getting a degree and demanding a job baffles me, but I’ve never met someone with so much determination. Except maybe Mary, who did finish school.   
When Silvya is harsh, or downright hurtful, it doesn’t strike me as malicious.   
It strikes me as afriad.   
Afriad of getting close to people. Afraid of ever letting her guard down around anyone. Afraid of being weak, or perceived as part of the crowd.  
I don’t know Silvya. I could be totally wrong about her. And maybe Mary’s right. Maybe it’s just hormones, or the yearning, but it feels right to me. Silvya and I have something about us, something between us. I couldn’t have been the only one who felt it last night.  
I keep her in my thoughts as the sky darkens. I wonder what she’s up to, if she found the cat, if she’s home now, or still working. She must have social media. I pull out my phone and open a few apps to search her name. She doesn’t show up anywhere except on her own website and on Instagram, but it’s a business account.   
I close my eyes, and lean my head back against the couch.  
I remember her looking at my tattoos. I remember her tracing the raised lines on my skin. Thinking of me, organically. She is curious about me, too. She is talking to me, too. I must be the luckiest girl on Earth.   
But there’s no way I’m the only one who’s paying attention to her. 


End file.
